


if home is where the heart is, then we're all just fucked

by nialltalbot



Series: you can wear the crown, but you're no princess [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Drug Abuse, Feminization, Kidnapping, Lots of Hurt, M/M, Rape, Second POV, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Zayn is Only Implied, non!con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nialltalbot/pseuds/nialltalbot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And on the six-hundredth and seventy-third day, Louis woke up to wrinkled sheets and a paper cut on his thigh, his heart is as empty as his chest feels when he discovers it isn't just temporary that his lover is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm sticking with you

**Author's Note:**

> This contains dubious content, kidnapping, and drug abuse, please be warned before reading if you are uncomfortable with any of these.

Baby always smelt like the sun after long days of football practice and dirt was always on the bridge of his nose, he always smiled at you like you were the whole fucking sky, his light blue eyes always looked perfect on Sunday afternoons, just in between 2:30 and 4:00, when you both were still so entangled in sheets and you felt clean even with stains on your stomach and legs. He always ran his calloused hands over your knees, marveling the scars and paint stains, saying how amazing you were, like you were a God, instead of a monster that picked this little thirteen year old boy off the streets with a wave and an offering for a drink. 

You can't help but feel bad when you remember he isn't yours to take claim over. He still has a mother and a father, and sisters, even a little brother. But you don't care. Not when you leave at six in the evening to exchange a handshake with a closer friend. You never feel bad when you make Louis tea in the mornings and nights and you ask him if he wants sugar. He always does, but you never put the exact amount of sugar in it, you always empty the little pale blue bag into his tea and stir it.

You don't feel bad when you find him with an empty mug on the nightstand, and his doll-like body completely relaxed. He doesn't protest when you lift him up and tug him around, and you don't feel bad. Not at all, not when he rams his teeth together with yours and not when he opened up his legs instead of keeping them closed because your stubble always made him pink and sensitive between his thighs. 

He calls you Daddy, and he twirls the lose strands of hair on your head like they should be worshipped. He treats you like Daddy, he sucks your cock nicely, little chapped lips trying so hard. He always apologizes too, and you smile and pat his bum before telling him Daddy loves him, loves that he tried. Then you'll reward him. Sometimes he's begging for it, other times he doesn't want it, he'll scurry to the edge of the bed and squeeze his thighs together with half-sobs.

"Baby," You'll say, (hand around your cock and his eyes are squeezing out tears but his cheeks are flushed and his thighs are twitching), "Why aren't you being good for me?" 

He'll bit his lip like a child trying to bargain for ice cream, and then he gives in with a, "I'm sorry daddy," and his chin will tilt up and you'll just grin and yank him by the bicep to spread out over the bed. 

-

His birthday was today, he turned fourteen. Also eight months he's been stuck with you. You got him a cake, it said, "Happy birthday baby." 

You couldn't put his name on it, the police still have tabs on anything involving his name and a 23-year-old man with brown eyes and a birthmark somewhere on his upper torso.

When you stuck on the pink candles on his cake you asked him what he was going to wish for, he said he wasn't going to tell you yet, and he stuck his finger in the frosting and put it on your nose. 

When you lit the candles and sang him happy birthday, you could hear him wish that he would get to see his little sisters again. 

After he opened his present from you (a nice new game for the system you had) he asked if he could leave yet. You told him yes, in a little bit and then you asked if he wanted sugar or not.

-

Baby hit you today. He said he didn't mean it. He said he wasn't trying to. He said he was sorry.

You said you were sorry when you slapped him right back and gave him a bruise the size of Russia on the underside of his jaw. 

-

He threw another fit today. Kicking, screaming. He said he hated you and you just shut him up with a finger pressed behind his teeth. He cried the whole night and even kicked your knee, the bad one. He bit your finger a few times and you ended up stuffing his mouth with cotton and ice.

-

The next morning Baby is standing in the kitchen with a box and slices of bananas on the counter in a bowl. Your shirts hangs off his frame so loosely and it curves where hips dive inwards. Mismatching socks and winky faced underwear are what make you suck in your breath and go to peck the top of his head. 

He says, "I don't get the directions,"

You ask what he's trying to do and he says, "Apologize."

You can't help but let the guilt ooze from your fingers when you squeeze his shoulders and say, "It's fine darling, I know you miss Them."

-

Baby is fascinated with the guitar you've never picked up or touched since when you got it. 

It was a stupid gift from your friend Harry, he had the brilliant idea that you could pick up the guitar and busk until you found another job. He brushes his little fingers against the strings and tries to come up with a chord or even course a little note out of the instrument. 

He gets a nice g sharp from the guitar while you're making dinner. He's so happy and excited that he strums again and tries to get the same note, he succeeds but it's weaker than before but he still squeals with delight and jumps up and out to tell you about it. 

You say its amazing and he should try to work on more notes and he just bounces up and down on his toes excitedly before going back to the room.

-

Baby's been counting how many days he's been here. Five-hundred and thirty-one. A year and six months, almost. He says he knows because that's how many times you've fucked him. Maybe even more. 

He asks again if he can go home.

You just ask if he wants more tea.

-

He can barely love you anymore, the little pipedream, he says he loves your skin and the way your knuckles carve bruises out of his flesh and you may think the drugs have finally caught up with him.

He hums along to pointless little songs while stroking the guitar like it's your skin. He improvs to a song called Oh Daddy, and you grin and make him pasta for dinner, because even though you love him and he loves you, you're still ten years older than him and he's still fifteen with baby thighs and a tummy with baby fat.

-

It's getting better. Slowly. He kisses you more and even asks about you. 

"What's your real name?"

You don't answer.

"Do you have any siblings daddy?"

"Two,"

He swings his sock covered feet and says, "Are you sad daddy?"

You don't answer, but he does. "I'm sad. Sad because you look at me like the way you do. You make me want to carve my own heart out and give it to you as a birthday present."

He stops and hiccups before taking another sup of his tea. "When's your birthday daddy?"

-

Six-hundred forty-three. 

-

You lose your head on a Wednesday. Six hundred and seventy two. You're both lying on the bed. Baby's head sits on your chest and his legs entangled with yours. 

"I love you." He says, and he doesn't say daddy, it's weird, so weird, he doesn't say 'I love you' unless daddy is tacked on the end sloppily. 

"I love you too," you say to satisfy him, and he hums and circles the pattern on your shirt, you inhale deeply and ask him, "Are you ever going to leave me baby?" You know the answer already.

"No," he paused and shifted his toes up to wriggle and press on the side on your calves, "Are you going to leave me daddy?"

You pause. He notices. "Daddy?" You can taste the tears welling up on the tip of his tongue and the wails soon to reach your ears. 

"Never, I'd never leave you."

"Good."

The feeling is like being hit by a train going at four thousand miles per hour. You stop breathing for a second before exhaling sharply and it clicks. It makes sense. 

-

You write him a note and shove it down the front of his jeans. You fuck him hard, and slow, and nicely the night before so he can have the lasting effect. But when you touch him you can see his skin darkening and rotting just as your fingers touch his.

You don't feel guilty when you remember how nice he looked all spread out and flush and begging and whining, you feel guilty when you see your Baby in your shirt and his mismatching socks and girl kitty themed underwear.


	2. i think i'm gonna like it here

You love him, you think. The way his hands filter over yours hips like you're some special china he's drinking tea from. He treats you like glass, just waiting for you to break so he can throw away the pieces and get a new one. He says you're special, the very first one, the only one.

You knows he's lying but your bones still ache for his hands to touch you the way your rotten brain thinks you deserve.

He's always there, lingering in the back of your head. He's the thing you're trying not to think of; I wonder when they'll give up on looking for me... I wonder how they get on without me... I miss them.. I miss him... I miss the girls.. I wonder when he's coming back... I need him... He loves me... I'm in love with him. He's like a virus.

-

You know there's a clear difference between I love you and I'm in love with you. He says I'm in love with you. You say I need you.

-

You're lithe, he says, stroking the skin between your knuckles. So fragile, he brushes his stubbly face over the crook his chin is delved in. He likes you like that: thin and breakable. He says he likes the feeling of you being so completely and utterly vulnerable to him. He likes the way you feel underneath his hands when they aren't trying to pry your thighs apart.

-

He says he hates the heat, always crawling underneath both of yours skin when you make love. He says he likes the cold better, that he'd rather be freezing than sweating his balls off. But he doesn't like your cold. The cold in the morning when your socks are kicked off in the middle of the night and your toes are cold and your fingertips barely warm enough.

You tell him he's going to get pneumonia one day and he laughs and kisses the top of your head. "I got my baby boy to keep me warm." You wonder if you'll ever be something more than just His.

-

He loves the small things you do for him. Pick his shoes up after a long day of job hunting, making him a peanut butter and (strawberry) jelly sandwich when you make yourself your own, he loves it when you take baths and let him wash your droopy hair. He absolutely adores it. It's a wonder he still fights with you.

-

Sometimes, you think Liam is crazy (He hates it when you call him Liam. Always a swat to the back of his thighs and a finger to the back of your teeth to remind you of what he really is ~~a monster~~ , Daddy). You can't remember nights sometimes. Always ending with a nice cup of tea and dozing on Liam's chest before everything goes blank.

You know he drugs you, you think he knows that you know. It's quite satisfying, telling him no to sugar and watching him dump something that doesn't look like sugar in it. It's feels nice, sometimes, when you can't move your own body and nothing is exactly yours. Your head lolls away when Liam is slamming into you and all he can say is, "Mine, mine, mine." Then he presses forward, curling into you and stuffing his rough hand in front of your mouth.

His thumb presses against your nostrils, keeping you from breathing. He loves it when you struggle, when you flail and your cheeks tint just the right red. He lives for it, breathes it in.

He also likes it when you fight back. Tiny little arms trying to go against his muscly build. It's like a deer going against a lion.

-

It's scary, to think that this is all real. You won't ever see your mum again, or your dad, or your little sisters, you won't even get a chance to say hi to your new siblings. It's scary, the real world. Cruel in a sense that you, this little boy from a little town got stuck with a maniac that likes it when you call him daddy in a choked breath.

-

He says he won't leave you. He say he won't leave you. He says he won't leave the thing that has become you. He says he loves you. He thinks he loves you.

You don't love him anymore. You love his skin and his knuckles and his eyes, the way they light up when you sit in his lap and rub the skin on his jaw.

It's not about loving him or him loving you anymore. You think you'd actually quite fallen in love because every time he hits you all you do is sit on your knees and _begbegbegbegbeg_ for more.

-

When you wake up, your feet are cold, despite sleeping in socks, and your right side is cold. You don't open your eyes, you let them stay closed and you paw your way to the side that Liam usually sleeps. The inside of your underwear feel itchy, for some reason.

-

You can't stop crying. You feel like your heart is throbbing and flexing in pain as if someone had their foot pressed on it. You fight yourself, you scratch at your limbs and throw the pillows and rip at the sheets. You tear books off the walls and rip out the pages, you throw up whatever feelings are swimming around in your stomach. You flush the note along with it.

-

(It seems he's tried to address you several times, scratched out baby, Louis, love, darling, and sweetheart. He settled on kitten.)

-

They come at 11. In the evening, apparently Daddy kept a close eye on the house, even after he left, because as soon as your tears and snot dry on your face and there's a policemen banging on the door and kicking it open. You scream when they take you, you cry, flail your legs, all the waterworks, but no matter how much you claw and kick and cry he won't come back. Not now.

-

You sit in an ambulance, the sheriff had given you his jacket so you're bundled up in that. They've already checked you for internal bleeding, bruises, anything broken or something medically wrong. The police are all over the house. There are men carrying your underwear in plastic baggies labeled evidence, and you're supposed to be back with your parents in another hour. Once they say you can go home.

Home to you is daddy's arms and the blankets they say you can't have.

-

The first thing your mother does when she sees you is cry. So do you, because they're pulling you by your arms and your sobbing and crying and demanding they take you back. You can feel the emptiness pulling at every corner of your heart and wrenching itself apart. Your mother looks so tired and old and by the time they shove you into the doorway of your house your mothers arms are around your neck and you just don't know what to fucking do.

She says she missed you, and maybe she even thinks you're crying because you've finally seen her but that's not the case, all you do is break down into sobs and let your mother take care of you.

-

You can't fall back into step for a while.

Your little sisters were two when you left, now they're four and they talk to you and ask who you are and talk and talk and talk and you can't handle it.

-

It's August, almost four months since you've been back. Your therapist doesn't think you're mentally stable, because all you do at appointment is cry and talk about how much you miss him.

You can't call Mark your dad, you don't call Johanna your mom. All they do is smile at you and say they love you.

-

You stay with Mark, for the majority of your 'healing process'. He gives you a small little room in the back of his house and leaves you to sulk until dinner time which you spend with his wife and your half sister Georgia.

-

It's been six months, you don't think you miss him anymore.

They catch you doing small things, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everybody and when you take them Georgia always says, "Lou I don't like strawberry jelly," and you have to take a giant breath before taking it back.

You catch yourself doing them too, at the store when you grocery shop for yourself you can't decide between a certain two things and you turn and say, "Da-," and you swallow and choke down the words.

-

It's been nine months and you think you're happy. You got a dog, a little puppy with giant brown eyes and fluffy brown hair and you don't name him Liam, his name is Woody.

You have a job, a little candy shop at the town's mall, and you have friends, so many friends. They go with you to get your tattoos; your latest addition had been a rope, tied right around your wrist, and in your inner wrist, the rope is broken.

-

Sometimes you break, on the days you're thighs rub together and you can't feel familiar scruff rash in between them and all you're left with is sobbing into your pillow and screaming obscenities and saying _I miss him I miss him I miss him_ but you think you're very okay to say the least.

Your new boyfriend is tall and he wears scruff and is only a year older than you and you don't love him yet. But he loves you and looks at you like the stars are shining in your eyes and the only dreams he wants are the ones where you're finally happy.

But on the days when you're laying next to him with your whole body pressed into his side and his arms tangled with yours, you don't think you can ever be truly happy. Not until he can rub the tears from under your eyes and kiss you like you're made of glass, but you think you're happy in that moment.

It's not him that completes you, because only God knows he's just as fucked up as you are. It's him who cradles your shaking hands when you superglue pieces back together, and it's him that marvels at the final project that looks like a child's work but thinks it looks like art.

He makes you feel like someone, he makes you feel something ever since that last night. He sparks fire underneath your skin and lets love flow through your veins. He takes you away, away from all the bad things and the dying forest in your chest. He makes you believe in yourself.

You believe that you can be truly happy again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated thank you for reading!!! I hope you liked it!!! :)


End file.
